The price of stoicism

When I first came to Princeton to live in Blair Tower and teach writing, I was struck by the stoicism of students who had been “hosed” by eating clubs. Princeton students are resilient, I thought; they bounce back and get on with life. Six years later, I’m not so sure this stiff-upper-lip attitude is entirely healthy. My students typically tell me they “love Princeton,” and there is a lot to love about a beautiful school that offers the best undergraduate education in America. But I sometimes get the feeling that, while they will surely love Princeton in some future P-Rade, they don’t love it so much at this very moment — at least not as much as they claim. I wonder if some of them are covering up the unhappiness and disquiet they feel, not so much with Princeton itself perhaps, but with campus culture.

I do not pretend that a 61-year-old adjunct professor can really know the hearts and minds of 20-year-old students. In class, my students by and large roll their eyes when I wag my finger at their mores and lifestyles. My wife points out that many college students are unhappy from time to time and always have been. Alienation is a problem hardly unique to Princeton (or Harvard or Yale), and a certain amount of stress is character building. I also know there are, at Princeton, many truly close friends who defy the perhaps too easy characterization of Facebook friends who tweet rather than talk. Teammates and performers, in particular, learn to count on each other. Princeton has plenty of self-aware students, like the ones who met with me to discuss loneliness. They were, of course, a self-selected bunch and not necessarily representative. But I suspect most students will recognize their description of loneliness in a crowded dining hall.

Still, my conversations with students over time have made me wonder what the effects of such a reflexively cheerful culture might be. I worry that not admitting adversity might make students brittle. The intense busyness of students and guardedness of their interactions can get in the way of deep friendship. Students wave at each other on the Street, shout out, “We should get a meal sometime,” drink, dance and hook up. But without admitting their fears and failures, how can students have the intimate sort of conversations that allow them to explore and reveal their hopes?

I am not suggesting that students should complain all the time and talk about their feelings. (We did that, endlessly and unproductively, at college when I was a student in the early 1970s.) But I admire the students who are not afraid to reveal their defeats as well as their triumphs, and I wish the Princeton undergraduate culture made more room for that sort of honesty. (I don’t mean bragging about lack of sleep to finish problem sets and too many extracurricular committee meetings.)

Students seem to think that a brisk, breezy or steely attitude is somehow professional, a way of showing you’re ready for the real world. Maybe so, but in my professional life, in the workplace, I saw a lot of laughter and tears, including my own. My wife first saw me cry when I was 26 and my freelance piece was rejected by The Atlantic Monthly. Embarrassing, I suppose, but thank God she was there.

I recall speaking a few years ago to a prominent local psychiatrist who has treated Princeton students for several decades. She observed that it is much better for students to crash now — and face their problems — than to crack up when they’re 40 years old with careers and families to wreck. Stoicism, even denial, can be useful and, in a way, healthy. But it is ultimately better to open up and confide, to share joys and sorrows. To get counseling if you need to, and not be afraid to admit it. To get on with life, yes, but by seeking out companionship, ignoring the trolls who enforce conformity, and embracing, in the fullness of life, the ups with the downs.

Evan Thomas, former Newsweek editor-at-large, is a visiting professor at Princeton. He can be reached at ewthomas@princeton.edu